


Random Tuesdays

by BabyGusty



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-27
Updated: 2020-02-27
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:34:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,539
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22921885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BabyGusty/pseuds/BabyGusty
Summary: Writtenafter"Saint Petersburg" butbeforeSeries 4: MJN goes bust, and everyone goes their separate ways. But when Carolyn dies leaving Martin as chosen guardian for Arthur, the team has to come together again.Martin/Douglas if you squint really hard.
Kudos: 12





	Random Tuesdays

~Random Tuesdays~

They went bust eventually. Not even Douglas’s scheming could help them. As far as ways to go it wasn’t like landing on Mayfair with a hotel, it was more like witnessing somebody else land on Free Parking five seconds before you do, collecting all the money and leaving you broke. MJN deflated quietly and not at all unexpectedly; which didn’t mean it didn’t hurt; although Arthur was the only one who admitted it. Without much ado they turned around, walked out of the porter cabin and went on with their lives. Martin stayed in touch for a few days with Douglas and a few months with Arthur, mostly because Arthur kept calling him. But it wasn’t the same, and the phone conversations were dominated by Arthur yapping away while Martin listened half-heartedly.

Times weren’t too bad. Now that he didn’t have a time consuming second job, Martin’s firm, Icarus Removal, offered a much more reliable service. Pleased customers recommended him, even though Martin didn’t kid himself; it wasn’t his services they recommended but his cheap price, and it wasn’t as if he made a lot of money all of a sudden. Martin still lived in the attic, his diet consisted mainly of things that were on sale at Tesco’s. The students waved at him when they saw him outside, and, once, a new batch of tenants invited him to a flat-warming party he didn’t attend. 

Martin did not live the good life, but it was, all things considered, not bad. He existed in a sort of limbo in which nothing could harm him, because nothing truly affected him. He didn’t apply for other piloting jobs, because he feared the rejections and because a tiny, malicious voice inside his head insisted that it wouldn’t be the same anyway. 

“We’re going to have an end of term party this weekend,” one of the students declared when Martin all but bumped into her in the hallway one random Tuesday. Martin didn’t bother to learn their names. He didn’t even look up to see which one of them it was; the one who wore wellies when she was indoors, apparently.

“Right,” Martin mumbled, because it looked as if the student was waiting for a response.

“I’m just saying, because it might get a bit loud that night.”

“It’s quite alright, I might be gone that day anyway.”

“Oh, really?” He thought he heard surprise in the student’s voice. Unless he was on a job, Martin was usually at home. He didn’t go out because he couldn’t afford to, so he spent the evenings playing his outdated flight simulator on his old computer. Sometimes, in an attempt to relive his past, he went to the library and got a Biggles novel.

“Well,” Martin felt compelled to add, because he couldn’t bear the thought of being misunderstood, “for a walk or... or... or something.”

“I see.” An awkward pause ensued in which neither of them moved. “Well, we just wanted to let you know, that’s all.” In his imagination, Martin saw the lot of them sitting together in the kitchen discussing the ‘pilot in the attic’ and drawing straws to pick who’d talk to him.

He muttered his gratitude, registered that his knuckles had become a white-ish yellow from cramping around the handle of his tool kit, and sought refuge in the attic. He didn’t like running into the students. Their self-confidence intimidated him. They were a bit like a huge mirror that showed what he wasn’t and could never become. He was sure they knew it, too, as it seemed so blatantly obvious. 

Once in his room, he locked the door as per usual. The tool kit lived in the cupboard underneath the sink, which was ironic, really, because to fix the sink all he’d have to do was bend down and take out the right tools, but he kept putting it off. He kept telling himself it wasn’t that big of a deal to bother the landlady about either. So it remained unfixed, even though the dripping faucet had prevented him from falling asleep on countless nights already.

Perhaps tonight, he told himself as per usual, then promptly forgot about it as per usual. He got out leftover tomato sauce from the fridge and put some rice on. Then he sat down at the kitchen table to go through the mail. It wasn’t a lot, just three letters and a leaflet. One of the letters had a black border around it and, thinking that one of his elderly aunts had passed away, he saved it for last. The other two were from his landlady and the car insurance respectively: The rent would be raised next year, the car insurance was due. The leaflet was in truth a Watchtower magazine from Jehova’s Witnesses. The aunt who had passed away was named Carolyn. 

Martin paused. He didn’t have an aunt called Carolyn. He looked again, read it more carefully this time, and then the memories poured down on him as if it hadn’t been almost two years since they had last seen each other.

The card didn’t say anything about what had happened. Martin suspected it must have been an accident, he didn’t recall her ever having been sickly. It had an ill-fitting verse on the front that suggested Arthur had picked it. It was signed by him anyway; not a copied signature but one done in orange coloured pencil.

Martin couldn’t get up after reading this, after succumbing to the memories, after starting to reproach himself for not having stayed in touch. Even after it began to smell of burning rice, he couldn’t find the motivation to get up. 

He decided not to go to the funeral. It was better not to see them again. Besides, there wasn’t an invitation, he didn’t know when it was; it could have already happened.

Martin put the card next to the fridge along with the landlady’s notice, the Watchtower leaflet, and the car insurance letter. Two days later he had forgotten about it.

Another five days later a second letter arrived. Without a black border this time, but from a law firm and concerning Carolyn’s passing away. He was supposed to meet with the lawyer; the notification said it was important.

The lawyer, a handsome man who was younger and more successful than Martin, met him in an office that was twice as big as Martin’s entire flat. Martin wasn’t envious, he just noted it. 

They exchanged formal greetings, and the young man came right to the point: “It’s about Arthur, Mrs Knapp-Shappey’s son. You are familiar with Arthur Shappey?”

Martin nodded. He wondered if Arthur had really stopped calling, or if he had just stopped listening one day, forcing Arthur into a retreat. A pang of guilt gave him neck pain. Briefly, he was afraid the lawyer would tell him that Arthur was in hospital or had died as well—the kind of unreasonable horror scenarios that unfold when the brain is too busy being ashamed to make sense.

The lawyer continued, alternately looking at a document in his hand and glancing at Martin over the rim of his glasses: “Then you know that he needs constant supervision. Arthur Shappey is not fit to live alone. Up until her death his mother had been his guardian, now this role is to be taken over by you.”

The words sank in after a moment of awkward silence.

“Can you...? Me? What...? Why?” Coherence was always the first thing that deserted Martin in times of stress or confusion.

“You have been chosen by both Mrs Knapp-Shappey as well as Arthur Shappey to be legal guardian. She has left you the house to move in, if you wish to do so. Otherwise, you are free to sell the property and do with the money as you please, provided you remain in the role of legal guardian to Arthur Shappey and assist him in such a way that he stays physically and mentally unharmed. Mister Crieff, do you understand what is asked of you?”

Martin nodded.

“And do you agree to take on that responsibility? Please understand that you don’t have to.”

“What happens to Arthur if I decline?”

“If you decide not to be his legal guardian, then the role will fall to his next of kin, Gordon Shappey.”

“His father?”

The lawyer shrugged once, as if to say that he didn’t know and he didn’t really care.

Martin asked, “But if I become his guardian, his father will not have any legal rights over Arthur?”

“Correct. I understand you are a close friend of the family?”

Now it was Martin’s turn to shrug once. If he was a friend of the family, then he had been a lousy one all along.

“I’ll do it.” he said. The thought of Arthur having to live with Gordon Shappey was not a comfortable one. He knew how Arthur felt about his dad, and from what little Carolyn had let on, Gordon treated Arthur very badly indeed; not that Carolyn herself had been a poster child for the loving, caring mother. The realisation that Arthur apparently needed a guardian at all came as a shock. He was Arthur! He was a bit odd, not very bright, and certainly not all there all the time. Martin had never imagined that he was incapable of living by himself. Arthur had lived with Carolyn because he liked living with his mum. Hadn’t he?

Still puzzled by these thoughts, Martin signed the papers to make it official.

“You can move in today,” the lawyer told him. “There’s an aide with him now, so you can take your time, but you should be there by four p.m. when the aide leaves.”

Martin nodded. He had few belongings, they would be boxed and transported in less time than it would take to fly to Edinburgh and back.

~*~

“I’m sorry, Skip! I’m really, really sorry!”

“Why? What happened?”

“Look. I know how you’re gonna be...”

“Arthur.”

“Remember your van?”

“What? What do you mean ‘remember’?”

“Remember how I asked you if I could play with the car?”

“Arthur! I didn’t know you meant _my_ car! What happened?”

“Well, I wanted to take her for a spin and I backed into a tricycle.”

“Oh. Well. That doesn’t sound too bad.”

“And then I panicked and I shifted gears and the car made this sort of jump forwards and into this other man’s car, who got a little upset. The man, not the car. That would be funny: an upset car!”

“Arthur, stay focused. What did the man say?”

“He shouted mostly. When he was done with that, he called me something I’m not allowed to repeat, then he gave me his card and he said he wants to talk with someone who isn’t crying.”

“What did you do then?”

“Nothing, I came inside.”

“What about the man?”

“He’s in the street waiting for you.”

“Why didn’t you say so before, Arthur? Let’s not keep him waiting when he’s obviously already irate!”

“I don’t think he’ll mind another few minutes, he’s been waiting for some time now.”

“You didn’t come back inside right away?”

“I did, yes, and then I went up to my room and I did what mum told me to do when I’m excited and upset, so I drew a couple of pictures and I made a get well soon card for the man’s car.”

“Oh, god.”

“Do you want me to come outside with you? For moral support?”

“No. Just wait here. Wait. And do nothing, do you understand me? Nothing. And, Arthur?”

“Yes, Skip?”

“No more The Sweeney episodes for a while.”

“Right-ho.”

“When I come back, we need to talk about what happened and about the van and how I need it to make money so the two of us can get by.”

“Brilliant.”

~*~

Douglas might have recognized the number on the display when he picked up the phone that day, but he didn’t look. Otherwise... well, he didn’t like kidding himself: otherwise he may not have picked up. He would have seen it was Carolyn’s number, because Douglas was good with phone numbers and rarely forgot them, and he simply wouldn’t have picked up. He had last spoken to her over two years ago and had then, after the end of MJN Air, severed all ties. 

But Tuesdays were busy days, for no real reason, and this particular one wasn’t an exception. Douglas expected it was a client when he picked up the phone, and it wasn’t until he was told who it was that he recognized the voice. 

“Martin?” he asked anyway. And then, because he didn’t know what else to say: “How on earth did you get this number?”

“I rang your house and Helena answered.”

“Ah.”

“Well, actually, her new... never mind. I was given this number. Is this... I thought the house was yours?”

“It was, yes.” Before the divorce; but Douglas didn’t elaborate. He carefully guarded his private life, so much so that it had become a habit to lie, omit, and deflect. Two and a half years ago, when he and Martin had still been colleagues, he may have considered telling him everything, but those days were gone and so was the intimacy that once had existed between them.

He waited for Martin to interrupt the silence and tell him what he wanted. Surely he hadn’t called just for old times’ sake. Surely he wanted something. 

“I know this is sudden,” Martin began slowly; the words and his voice sounded as if he had rehearsed it. Douglas wouldn’t put it past him. “We haven’t spoken in awhile.”

“Two and a half years,” Douglas interrupted. Thirty-one months, but who was counting?

“Yes. So... how are you, Douglas?”

“I’m busy. Surely so are you. What do you want, Martin?”

“Oh, god, yes, I’m sorry to, uhm, take up your time. You must be busy.” Rehearsed or not, Douglas mused, Martin was afloat now, probably terrified because he wanted something from Douglas and knew he could expect a quid pro quo. “There’s a reason I’m calling, and I am really sorry for calling you like that, but, Douglas, I don’t know anyone else and I could use some help. I need it, actually. I need your help. Because you know Arthur.”

“Of course I know Arthur. Funny chap. Not the brightest crayon in the box.”

Martin didn’t seem to be amused. “I mean you know him. You know how he is.”

Douglas sighed loudly to make Martin understand how little patience he had for what more and more sounded like some sort of game. “Is there a point to all of this, Martin?”

For the next five minutes he simply listened. Eventually, he had to sit down as Martin told him about the last half year. About Carolyn’s death (hadn’t Douglas known? No, Douglas hadn’t known!), about Martin and Arthur living together.

“You live together?” Douglas asked.

“Not like that! I take care of things. I manage the house and, well, everything, really, while working so we can make a living, and it’s really, really difficult. You know how Arthur is from what little time we spent with him, but it’s very different at home when you’re with him all day and all night, and I can’t, Douglas, I really can’t.” He stopped himself after having repeated that last part of the sentence a couple of times.

Douglas wasn’t sure what Martin wanted from him, though. Why had he called? It was, admittedly, an almost nice change to hear the familiar voice again, a little blast from the past to colour up the daily grind. But if Martin expected him to get up, leave everything and come over to have tea and biscuits and listen to his problems, then he was very much mistaken. Douglas wasn’t the sort of chap who did things like that. Douglas didn’t need friends and chats and tea and biscuits. That’s why, when Martin did indeed ask that very thing, Douglas replied that he’d be right there.

When a client called on the way to Carolyn’s house, he told them that Doug’s Cab Service had an emergency and would resume normal services tomorrow. 

~*~

“But why, Skip, why?”

“Because it just is, Arthur, that’s why. Just accept it as a universal truth.”

“Okay. Do you think maybe Douglas could explain it?”

“What does Douglas have to do with anything?”

“He rang.”

“He did? When?”

“Two days ago.”

“Two... Arthur, you need to tell me these things! It’s no use being my ‘professional, real person answerphone’, when you don’t relay the messages.”

“Sorry.”

“It’s alright. What did he say?”

“He said he wants to come by for dinner on Tuesday.”

“But today is Tuesday.”

“Oh, yeah. He wants to come by for dinner today.”

“But that means I’ll have to go get groceries and put something on!”

“I already bought groceries.”

“We may need something more nutritional than Corn Flakes and Maltesers.”

“I also bought apples so you can make a pie.”

“Douglas doesn’t like apples.”

“Cherry pie, then. I love cherry pie.”

“Also, it’s a bit late for that now. Did he say when he wanted to come?”

“Six.”

“Six!? No, it doesn’t matter, it’s too late to make anything anyway, it’s gone five!”

“We’ve got loads of time, Skip. Don’t panic.”

“I’m not panicking!”

“Yes, you’re making that funny sound that means you’re panicking. It’s just Douglas. He’s our friend. He won’t mind having sloshy spaghetti for dinner.”

“My spaghetti aren’t sloshy.”

“Of course not. You can make not-so-sloshy ones tonight. Unless you’re still panicking. You’re a clot when you’re panicking.”

“I’m not a clot.”

“You are when you’re panicking.”

“I’m not panicking, Arthur. We have less than an hour to conjure up some magical dinner that doesn’t look like somebody forgot to tell the cook there’d be company for dinner! And so, I will do something I normally wouldn’t do; I’m going to ask you to help me, Arthur.”

“Brilliant!”

~*~

It was exactly seven weeks after Martin had called Douglas for the first time in years, desperate for help and, if he was honest with himself, desperate for someone to have an actual conversation with. A conversation that didn’t start and end with the word “Brilliant” and that did not go in circles.

The funny thing was that Douglas, once back, seemed to want to keep in touch. Martin noted, with relief and surprise, that he visited regularly. Sometimes he’d come around with food he had bought for dinner, mumbling something about having bought too much for one person. Sometimes, he brought a movie for Arthur and withdrew into Carolyn’s old office with Martin for coffee and chit-chat. Without the pressure of piloting an aeroplane together, Martin found that conversation came almost easily to them; at least to himself, he couldn’t speak for Douglas.

“Literary characters who would have been better off in a different book.” Douglas suggested and forced Martin’s focus back into the present. “Bathsheba Everdene in The Hitchhiker’s Guide To the Galaxy.”

Martin nodded solemnly. “Yes, very good,” but couldn’t come up with a good example himself.

“Count Dracula. Twilight.”

“Ah, yup, good one. Fred Weasley in Alice In Wonderland.”

Douglas looked at him, amused almost, but Martin thought that this was pretty much Douglas’s default facial expression. The world seemed to exist solely for his amusement. “Really, Martin? Fred Weasley? I didn’t know you were such an avid Harry Potter reader.”

“Well, I’m not. But they’re Arthur’s favourite books. At the moment. Out of the few books he’s read; not that he really reads. We get the audio books for him or, or, or I read to him.”

Douglas nodded but didn’t say anything, so Martin explained that Arthur had troubles processing written information, then lapsed into a lengthy explanation on how they had found that out and what a big help their GP had been in discovering this. He spoke until words deserted him, then fell into an awkward silence. Douglas did that to him more than any other person; he made Martin feel helpless and silly, made him want to stop talking and rant on indefinitely at the same time. He noted he was sweating all of a sudden.

“You’ve taken on quite a lot, haven’t you?” Douglas asked suddenly. “Taking care of Arthur and the house, and your business, of course...”

Before Martin could reply, the door burst open and Arthur exploded into the room. Immediately he held up a hand in surrender, very quietly left and closed the door again only to knock on it from the outside.

“Come in, Arthur.” Martin called.

The door swung open and Arthur strode back in. “How did you know it was me?” He asked, baffled.

Martin shook his head. “Never mind, Arthur. What is it?”

“Nothing really. I just wanted to know if you’re staying for dinner, Douglas.”

Several alarm bells at once began to ring in Martin’s head. “Why?” He wanted to know, perhaps more sharply than he intended to, but Arthur didn’t register it.

“I’m going to make cherry pie for dessert.”

“Goodness, me. Dinner and dessert for Douglas. Surely, I must stay now.”

“Brilliant!” 

Before Martin could tell him to be careful, mind the broken mixer, and clean up everything, Arthur was gone with an almost comical speed. 

“I’m sorry about that, Douglas. You don’t have to stay if you don’t want to.”

“It’s quite alright.” 

Douglas didn’t say any more than this. For the first time since they had re-entered each other’s lives, Martin realized that he didn’t know anything about the man who sat opposite him. All he knew was that Douglas had moved out of his house, but Martin had no idea where he lived now or what he did for a living. He wondered if Douglas had any other friends. He seemed to spend a lot of time at the house with Arthur and himself.

“Are you...” Martin began, than started again: “How are you doing, Douglas?”

“Not better or worse than anybody else, I suspect; always excepting Homeless Harold from under the bridge and the Queen.”

Martin would have liked to deepen this particular conversation, but a crash from the kitchen and a sharp bark coming from Snoopadoop cut it short. When Arthur yelled “I’m alright!” Martin went into the kitchen to clean up whatever mess his housemate had created.

They had Angel Delight for dessert, but not even Douglas seemed to mind.

~*~

“Arthur, we’re leaving now.”

“Brilliant. And I’ll mind the house. Don’t worry, Skip, I’m good at that and I won’t set the pie on fire again, not that there is any pie around today, and it was an accident, but I’ll make an extra effort.”

“Right. Are you sure you’ll be alright on your own? You can visit someone if you want to.”

“I’ve got Snoopadoop! Are you alright, then, Skip?”

“Why? What do you mean?”

“Nothing, it’s just... you look a bit nervous.”

“Nervous? Certainly I’m not. Not nervous, not I. Why, do I look nervous? Oh, god, tell me I don’t look nervous!”

“You don’t look nervous.”

“Truthfully?”

“No. You look like you’ve never been out on a date before.”

“It’s not a date, Arthur! Douglas and I are just going out for a drink.”

“I thought that’s what a date is.”

“Well... usually... but not tonight, because this isn’t a date.”

“Then why are you nervous?”

“Because, Arthur, I haven’t been out for, well, years, and certainly never with Douglas, and you know how he is! What if we run into someone he knows and he says something... you know... about my height or, or, or anything about me?!”

“He wouldn’t.”

“I know you think he’s brilliant, and mostly you’re right, but this is Douglas we’re talking about. He always says something about... something.”

“The old Douglas, the MJN Air Douglas, would say something. But not this new, nice Douglas. He wouldn’t make fun of you.”

“Douglas is still Douglas.”

“He’s changed, Skip.”

“Do you really think so? How can you be certain of that?”

“I do think that. I am certain. Because he likes us.”

“Douglas doesn’t like people.”

“I don’t think he used to, but he does now. He likes being here.”

“Really? Did he say so?”

“He doesn’t need to, I can see.”

“Oh, yes, right, because obviously the hidden depths of people’s inner soul life are clearly visible to you, Doctor Shappey.”

“They are, though. I know I’m not as smart as you or Douglas, but I notice things, too. Douglas comes round every other day to hang out, but really he helps in the kitchen and shovels the driveway in the winter, and cleans up, and he has a set of clothes in mum’s old office so he can change into something comfortable after work, and a toothbrush in the guest bathroom downstairs, and what really makes it obvious to me, Skip, what really tells me that Douglas likes being with us: Last week he brought a bone for Snoopadoop. Not a crummy one either, but one of those fancy ones you get at the butcher’s when you ask them for a nice, fancy bone for the dog.”

“Oh. Well. That’s very—”

“Martin! Are you coming or have you grown roots up there?”

“Coming, Douglas! Anyway, be safe, Arthur, and, please, keep the house safe, too.”

“No problem, Skip.”

“We’ll be back before midnight. I assume.”

“Brilliant.”

~*~

Tuesdays were still busy, nothing changed that. Douglas had given up wondering why and just accepted it. It meant arriving at the house after nine, occasionally even later. Sometimes Arthur was already sleeping or fell asleep in the TV chair when he watched cartoons after dinner. Then they simply lingered in the living room until Douglas ran out of excuses to put off going home. Other times, like today, Douglas was in the mood to do something; go out and forget about the daily grind over a glass of Whiskey and good conversation – or, in this case, a glass of apple juice and a chat with Martin. 

He was surprised when Martin accepted his invitation and relieved once they made it out of the house and into the pub. So that, he mused as he ordered two non-alcoholic drinks, was how parents of young kids must feel when they snuck away for the first night out without a babysitter. Not that he knew a lot about parenting, his wife had mostly raised their daughter – he was like a good uncle to her who came around twice a year to bring gifts. Douglas decided not to think about it for tonight.

“And so,” Martin ended both his Shirley Temple and his story, “ever since then the van is misbehaving even more than before. I fear, one of these days, I’ll have to get a new one. Icarus Removal is pathetic enough without a broken car.”

Douglas observed the other man fidget with the little umbrella in his glass. “Tell me, Martin,” his mouth spoke before his brain was done thinking about it, a curious thing that seemed to happen when he was around Martin, “do you like the moving business?”

Martin barked a laugh. “Do I like humping boxes into a broken van praying it’ll keep itself together? No. But I like worrying about money even less. Why do you ask?”

“I’m asking because I have a proposition for you.” Douglas’s cab business was going rather well indeed, even on days that weren’t Tuesday. He had pondered the idea of hiring someone, expanding a bit. Perhaps getting a bigger car and offering shuttle services to other airports. He had a few ideas, but none of them was even close to getting realized without help; if he hired someone, though...

Martin stared at him when he was done explaining. “Are you offering to hire me?”

He laughed. “Goodness, no! I’m offering to make you my business partner.”

As was typical for Martin, the joy that was plainly visible in his face dissipated into panic a heartbeat later. Fidgeting some more, almost breaking the poor umbrella, he went on declaring that he didn’t have any money for a buy-in, trying to find excuses to shy away from the responsibility.

Douglas ignored his stammering and said, “I admit it is nothing like piloting an aeroplane, though I’m not saying that’s entirely out of the question depending on however well Doug’s Cab Business will do in the future. But it is a job, and a better one than you have right now. As for the buy-in...”

“Douglas, I really don’t have—.”

“I was thinking: I know you don’t have any money. You do, however, have a house you don’t need to pay rent for; as opposed to me, who lives in a flat with rather a steep rent – the price I pay for living in the city centre, close to my clients.” He didn’t explain any further, but let the message sink in by itself. It was priceless watching Martin’s face go from despair to understanding within a minute.

“We have Carolyn’s old office!”

“I know.”

“And the second bathroom downstairs.”

“I am fully aware of it.”

“Arthur would love it, of course. And, and this would be the buy-in? No scheme, no agenda?”

“A scheme? An agenda? Moi?”

Martin merely looked at him, suddenly possessing more self-confidence than ever; until Douglas looked away, pretended to study the drinks menu again. 

“Douglas,” Martin started. “I’m being serious. Life with Arthur is strenuous. It can be nice, of course, but mostly it’s just very strenuous. I don’t think I can handle watching out for possible schemes of yours or even dealing with your sarcasm. If we lived together, would you... could you... be nice to us?”

The crucial point had been spoken. The abyss had been pointed out. This was the moment when Douglas always ran away. Left wife, girlfriend, boyfriend, daughter, and didn’t look back. It was the way he was raised, and although he was aware of this pattern, although he had realized awhile ago that he was becoming just like his father, whose sarcasm had been gut-wrenchingly bitter, he found he lacked the willpower to change. Or, if change was impossible, then the willpower to stop any further movement in that direction. 

Once again, Douglas was faced with the decision to leave now or try. He had never wanted to try for his wives, not even for his daughter, who did, after all, prefer his ex-wife’s husband over her own biological dad. Perhaps he shouldn’t blame her for that; he had worked hard to keep everyone at a distance. And so everyone had either left or given him enough reasons to leave. Until the only people he had left were a nervous wannabe pilot and a clot. And Douglas had to admit to himself now that, above all people, he was reluctant to lose those two.

Martin didn’t say anything for a long time. Neither did Douglas. Eventually, he turned his gaze from the drinks menu, only to find that Martin wasn’t looking at him. The paper umbrella was a mere skeleton in his hands now, little shreds of blue paper lay on the table like remnants of a cyclone.

“I’ll try,” Douglas said. And then his mouth betrayed him one more time by saying something he would never have said back in his hard-boozing days: “I may need some help with that.”

Martin looked up from the mess he had made and into Douglas’s eyes. He nodded. Thankfully, he didn’t say anything else. The conversation that followed was spoken by way of a handshake and was sealed with a smile.

~*~

“Doug’s Cabs, this is Arthur speaking. How may I help you? ... Let me see what I can do. Hang on, I mean: Please hold the line. – Skip?”

“What is it, Arthur?”

“There’s a lady on the phone who needs a lift to the airport tomorrow morning.”

“Absolutely not. Not tomorrow. You know what day tomorrow is.”

“Tomorrow is Wednesday.”

“Yes. It’s also Douglas’s birthday.”

“Right! Yes! Brilliant! I had forgotten about that! Are we going to surprise him and throw a huge party and invite everyone we know and go to the zoo to watch the otters and have cake and cookies and silly hats again?”

“No, Arthur, that was your last birthday, remember?”

“Oh, right. I get mixed up. What are we doing then?”

“Nothing much. We’ll spend the day together, watch a movie, go out for dinner, and then have a nice night in. Just the three of us. No work. No stress.”

“Brilliant! I’ll make a card!”

“Arthur.”

“Yes, Skip.”

“Aren’t you forgetting something?”

“What’s that? A cake! I need to bake a cake!”

“I’m already on it. I meant the phone, Arthur. There’s a client on the line waiting for you to tell her to find a different cab company for tomorrow.”

“Right. Sorry! Can I help with the cake then?”

“You can make the lemon frosting.”

“Brilliant! – Hello? Are you still there, Miss? ... I’m sorry to tell you we cannot drive you to the airport tomorrow. The business is closed due to a family event. Okay, bye.”

~ fin ~


End file.
